The Mirror Girl
by Brooklynn Flame
Summary: Jacelyn, better known as Jack, is seventeen. Her boyfriend slit his wrists and bled out. Nobody looks at her the same anymore; they stare. In a world of masks and cruelty, Jack tries to find her place, faced with a question: What if she doesn't have one?
1. Introduction

THE MIRROR GIRL

_She looked into the mirror,_

_And all she saw was_

_Everyone else._

_It was then that she realized_

_She had lost herself_

_To the world._

_It was then that she turned_

_And sought to find her_

_Own reflection._

_this is me._

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INTRODUCTION

They always say that an attitude is something that you choose. It's not the actions that affect you, but your reactions. Personally, I've always thought that emotions are out of our control. Anger, hate, disgust, agony, heartbreak. Love, happiness, joy, adoration, courage. Positive or negative, I believe that the best we can do is try to pretend we're okay and hope our minds catch on eventually.

Unfortunately, it's not a common occurrence.

Personally, I am not okay. I am completely - maybe permanently - fucked up. I wake up several times an hour in the night, stifling my screams only to stumble back into the caress of my nightmares. There are days when I hardly want to touch food; loathe even the sight of it, as my stomach turns sour and all I seek is to turn away. Scars are strewn haphazardly across my body, serving as lingering witnesses, long after the trial has ended. Proclaiming that they were born on the nights when I was at my weakest. When I collapsed. Shattered. Changed. Changed, into the mess of broken glass and sands of time, the irreversible mistake.

Like so many other people, I don a mask daily. A mask that is slowly splintering, chips crumbling away, as if the stronger part of me has finally decided to catch up with the rest of me. My mask of happiness, pretend laughter, and recklessness. With each passing day, it becomes less visible, slowly caving to reveal the true me. My flaws are beginning to claw their way to the surface, and it terrifies me.

By far, the most painful aspect of it all is the fact that nobody knows. I suffer in silence. I stare at the ground as I wander the hallways. Hallways that could be empty for all the good it's doing me; hallways that are crammed full of people who don't reach out to help, even if it just means saying hello. Part of me wonders if they're really that oblivious, or if they're all just pretending so that they don't have to face the fact that so many others are exactly like me. Broken. Alone in a crowded room.

After he died, people started to treat me differently. They're always awkward, or casting me looks brimming with pity like an overflowing toilet. I absolutely loathe it. And the more that I hate it, it seems the more often it happens. Wherever I go, I'm chased by white-hot stares fixated on the back of my neck. It's begun to suffocate me.

The only exceptions of these ever-present gazes are my friends, though they're few these days. With them, I can pretend to be normal. While I can't drop my protective barriers all the way, I can at least lower them. In all honesty, I think that's the only thing keeping me from trying to escape. Trying to get to him again. They temporarily silence - or at least muffle - the heart-wrenching sobs of agony that throb within my chest day-to-day, minute-to-minute. They're holding me together, if only barely.

Trust me, this introduction is almost over. But I haven't quite gotten to actually introducing myself, and as we all know, things have to begin before they end... My name is Jacelyn. My friends call me Jack, despite my being a girl. My enemies' nickname for me isn't quite as flattering, but lately, they've pretty much left me alone because it would ruin their reputations if they made fun of the girl whose boyfriend slit his wrists and bled out. Personality-wise, I think you probably know the same amount about me as I do.

And, of course, this is my story. Welcome to it.


	2. Chapter 2

_same shit, different day._

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CHAPTER TWO

"Hey, Jackass." The voice hisses audibly, but only just - nobody nearby will hear it, but I can. I do my best not to flinch, but the voice puts me on edge, feeling very much as if I am dangling over a precarious cliff. I inhale deeply, muscles tense as I wait for further insult to come from my attacker's lips. It doesn't happen. I relax.

Around me, there is near-silence. The library is half-full of people, but the only sound is the shuffling of their feet and the ruffling of pages as they browse. The librarians here are strict. That's part of the reason I like it here. When I'm here, I can pretend that the only reason everyone avoids my gaze and remains silent when they pass by is that they're terrified the librarians will hang them by their toes. It's nice, to pretend every once in awhile.

As I'm thinking about this, I hear the _click, click, click _of Spider's heels on the tile of the hallway. She's one that had almost startled me. The sight of her scantily-clad body sauntering away makes me want to tie her down, spit in her face, and dice her into teeny tiny bite-sized pieces. Spider acts like she's better than everyone else, and I want to punish her for it. My shrink says these are unhealthy thought processes, and makes a concerned face whenever I look like I'm going to go on a tirade like that, but I try to avoid doing so in her presence. And I make no effort whatsoever to stop thinking my violent thoughts.

Said shrink was my mother's idea. After the...ordeal (because suicide really isn't an accident and it would be ridiculous to call it that) she started to pretend she gave a shit about me again. At this thought, I roll my eyes. Pathetic - she thinks she has everyone fooled, but I of course am not. I don't believe her claims of worrying about me, because every time there is a distinctly false note in the phrase. So I typically ignore her and lock myself in my room, crank up some angry music, and try to figure out what I can do to piss her off next.

My dad, though, actually seems to care about me. He's awkward, but bearable. My mother should be mince-meat. (I should probably stop making that comparison. I don't want people to think I'm a cannibal on top of everything else.) Since he doesn't ask annoying questions, or try to be nosy, I can at least stand being in a room with him for extended periods of time. As for the two other bits of my family, there are Dun and Rusty. Dun is my older brother. He's a senior, and quite possibly my best friend. No matter what has me down, he can either cheer me up or just listen. Both of which I need more than frequently. As for Rusty...

Rusty is my dog.

I would hope you'd guess that by his name, but personally I miss obvious things like that all the time, so I'm not one to criticize in that area. But anyways, Rusty is probably the best dog ever. We've had him since my tenth birthday - I'm sixteen, almost seventeen, now. He was a rescue puppy. He wasn't abused or anything super traumatic and heart-wrenching like that. His owners were moving and couldn't keep him, so they brought him in. I unwrapped him in a box as a birthday present, surprised to find a cute little mutt-puppy with a bow stuck to his head.

He's a medium-sized dog with all sorts of things in him. German Shepherd, Labrador Retriever, and whatever gave him his extremely soft, curly red-brown coat. His eyes are the size of the moon, a deep chocolate brown, designed specifically for the purpose of begging. He gets away with it, too. How could I possibly resist? I can't. He's always then there for me, and although he loves Dun, too, it's my room he sleeps in (sprawled across the doorway, on red alert for any danger). When I walk through the door, getting home from school, I usually get bowled over and licked from head to toe. In return, I soak him in tears every once in awhile; that's just how it works.

The bell rings suddenly, its piercing, shrill scream startling me. For a moment, I am triggered to remember; I recall the all-too-innocent sound of sirens in the distance, the wailing of the ambulance racing to the scene of somebody's - somebody's, not my - distress. I remember the text messages which are still saved on my phone (also unhealthy, in my shrink's opinion. For once, I can't disagree with her, any more than I can bear to delete them). The last words he sent me; the words that would have saved his life, if only I had just kept my phone charged...

I jolt back to life as the sound of the bell cuts off, signaling that I've been dismissed to lunch. I scramble to grab my backpack, and stuff the stray papers and the book I was half-heartedly reading into it. Bolt from the library as if chased, the snapping jaws of hellhounds at my heels. In a way, I guess I _am _chased. I am reminded that no matter where I go, who I'm with, who I'm without, I will never be truly safe from my memories. No matter how strong I pretend to be, I cannot save _me_ from myself.

The hallway feels like it is much too small. Walls are pressing in on me, the ceiling is sinking closer and closer. I feel like I'm suffocating, running out of time. My heartbeat throbs in my ears for no reason at all, and I am painfully aware of the _thump-thump, thump-thump _in my ears that sounds too much like _tic, toc _under the circumstances. I feel like I'm going to black out, go down like a soldier on the front lines. I turn the corner, my head spinning as the panic attack triggered by the bell threatens to close in over my head…and run right. Into. Grasshopper. Real name Alexa. Her goonies - including Spider, Ant (Morgan), and Fly (I don't know his real name, but he's Grasshopper's boyfriend, despite the fact that she cheats on him just about every week, and everyone knows it. He must think he's hot shit - where'd that phrase come from, anyway? - because she "loves him" or some bull like that) - erupt into loud, obnoxious, sneering laughter that peels through the hall. I stumble backward, nearly falling flat on my ass. Shooting a glare at Grasshopper, I grind my teeth. Silently imagine what it would feel like to stab her in the back, quite literally. I regain my footing and shove through them, as if parting a very reluctant Red Sea. Their laughter swells as Grasshopper murmurs a quiet joke about me that I can't quite catch, then fades behind me as I make my desperate escape.

If you happen to be wondering how they got their nicknames, let me tell you. Grasshopper hops from boy to boy constantly, being the huge slut that she is. Spider has extremely long legs and only wears dark colors, favoring her black four-inch heels. I like to imagine them being the sound a spider would make as it ate the head off of some other sort of insect. She's about as loyal to her friends as a spider is to bugs, anyway. Ant has three distinctly different segments of her body - boobs, muffin-top, ass. Fly has eyes that bug out of his head. His name was originally Fruit Fly, because I thought he was gay for the longest time. (I have nothing against gay people. I already told you Dun's my best friend, right? Yeah, he's gay. I just have something against this particular gay person. Well, if he had turned out to be gay, that is.) Then he started dating Grasshopper. I still accidentally call him that out of habit sometimes, though.

Absentmindedly, I turn the dial of the padlock on my locker to my combination numbers, unlock it, and cram my shit in. I snatch up my wallet and practically sprint to the cafeteria. While days where I have no appetite come and go, this isn't one of them. Rather than sickening me, my small episode - I've had much, much worse - has left me ravenous. Quickly purchasing two hotdogs, with mustard only, and a soda, I search out my friends and am relieved to see them at our usual table. I weave through the crowd of chattering teenagers, the noise level like the sound of a waterfall as everyone endlessly attempts to talk over everyone else.

"Jack!" someone calls above the racket. I'd know that voice anywhere. As I take my usual seat two from the end of the rectangular table, Elvina shoots me a smile. Elvina is her full name. We just call her Elf. I return the smile and immediately sink my teeth into hotdog number one, my chosen victim. As a matter of fact, all of us have nicknames, since our parents are all ridiculous and picked stupid ones for all of us without fail. Obviously, there's me, Jack. Then of course Elf. Panthea, who we call Panther or Pants. And the most ridiculous of all, Heloise, whom we call Hell. It pisses teachers off occasionally, but there's nothing else to call her otherwise, and Heloise is possibly the cruelest name somebody could bestow upon their unfortunate child.

As for physical descriptions, Elf has earned her name. She has an olive complexion with dark hair, high cheekbones, and bright green eyes. A slim waist, and a few inches taller than me. She's leggy, but not busty. Pants is a blondie with round blue eyes and an oval face, and is slightly shorter than me. Hell is a happy medium (oh, the irony of that sentence) between us all. She's an average height with brown hair, brown eyes, and overall a pretty face. She's also the nicest of us, which is another reason for her sarcastic nickname. Then, there's me - brown hair with all sorts of highlights and lowlights, and eyes that are green if you really look but appear blue or gray from a distance. I'm about 5'6" and skinny, but not scrawny. I'm not curvy, I'm not particularly attractive. I'm mostly average on the outside, despite a few vivid scars that appear out of place on my pale skin.

Around me, they banter quietly, arguing about whether or not Pants should be chasing after some guy in her World History class. I zone out, completely focused on inhaling my hotdogs. After a few minutes, both of them are gone. A break in the conversation ensues, and moments later, I let out a belch that sends my friends breaking out into giggles. Even so, I see Hell glance at me, as if looking for signs that I will go back into my formerly comatose state. I had been that way for quite some time, and although I appreciated that she was worrying, it kind of bothered me that she couldn't at least have the decency to hide it. While being the nicest, she was also the most perceptive, and she wasn't afraid to confront someone if she noticed something odd.

Right on time, the bell dismisses us to fourth hour. The walk there is crowded and uneventful, and I realize this is the new tone for the rest of the day. I don't bother paying attention in any of my classes. In most of them, we're just reviewing what we've learned, and I already know most of this crap well enough to recite it backwards in my sleep. If I wasn't constantly waking up screaming, that is. In study hall, I lay my head down, and the next thing I know I'm being shaken awake and informed that school is over. I can go home.

I floor it on my way home in my neon green Volkswagen Beetle, absentmindedly watching people hit each other as I zoom by. That was one of the best things about this car. If I was in a funk, I could just drive around and watch everyone beat the snot out of each other to relieve some of my tension. If not, I just went to my dad's general store. The store's called "I Dunno, Where Do You Wanna Go?" It's a mouthful, but he and I came up with it a long time ago, and he said if he ever got his store that's what he would call it. He kept his word, and the store has become a little bit famous in our small town.

The second I get home, I get my daily mauling from Rusty, then make my way to my bedroom, ignoring my mother's greeting. Bitch needs to leave me alone. After I ignored her walking through the door for months at a time, you'd think she'd get a hint. Somehow, not the case. Not at all. Rusty follows me in, and I lock my door behind me. I crawl into my bed, swamping myself in my pitch-black, silky comforter. Within what feels like seconds, I am in the wonderful bliss that is uninterrupted, dreamless sleep, Rusty curled up at the foot of my bed. For once, I am not awoken by nightmares.


End file.
